Molokai
was where the lepers breathed. It could have been one of those
forlorn grottoes on his side of their double
bed, where they slept all those years
without touching. Rhythm had failed them
too many times: It was the tropics
but she covered up. Sometimes his eyes
stared out of a darkness that ate his flesh.
Susan Kelly-DeWitt | Mudlark No. 33 Contents | The Maiden Name